


Are You Listening?

by roidadidou



Category: Super Science Friends (Cartoon)
Genre: Family Fluff, Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Team as Family
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-11
Updated: 2018-10-11
Packaged: 2019-07-29 17:15:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,332
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16268750
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/roidadidou/pseuds/roidadidou
Summary: The American-made clone of Albert Einstein is four years old, but still hasn't spoken yet, leading Churchill to frustration.





	Are You Listening?

“He should be talking by now.”  


“He's four; he should be saying full sentences.”  


Churchill sat on the couch opposite to Freud’s office chair. They watched with uncertainty as the small boy in front of them knelt to draw at the coffee table. While other children would have left their crayons haphazardly circling their papers, he neatly arranged them in order by length. Whenever he was done with one color, he would place it back in its spot and pick out another.  


Freud wasn't skilled in working with children, but tried to make sense of Albert’s behavior. He scribbled notes on a yellow notepad.  


The politician dragged his calloused hand down his face and rested his cheek on his palm. Smoke hung over both of their heads as they absentmindedly chewed on expensive cigars.  


“I don't know what's wrong. He's a genius. He should be giving speeches at this point.”  


“He could just be dumb.” The word was simply used to mean ‘mute.’ Freud’s responses were sturdy and objective. It agitated the Prime Minister.  


“Then the Americans screwed us over, God dammit! They promised us he'd be just like the real Einstein!”  


Concerned eyes behind glasses quickly looked to Albert to watch his reaction. The boy's crayon froze an inch above the paper. He stared at nothing.  


“He's still a child like anyone else's. And he's anything but unintelligent; he's already learning arithmetic.”  


Churchill sighed.  


“I know. I know. I'm not… Any less fond of him.”  


“Maybe he's just waiting until he has something important to say. Some boys wait this long.”  


Albert set the crayon down, putting it between two others to create a scale of short to long like a pan flute. He looked at the clock. Eleven forty-five… It was almost time for lunch.  


He began putting the crayons back in the box, arranging them in the same order. His small hands ran across his paper to file out the wrinkles. Then he lifted it, stood, and turned to press himself between Churchill’s legs. His hands held out the paper as an offering.  


The man took it with fingers that were careful not to crease it, and held it at a distance his poor eyes could understand.  


A sailboat on a blue ocean.  


“That's a lovely drawing, Albert.” Churchill said. His voice was instinctually passive, but for this statement, it felt abnormally genuine.  


The politician chuckled, and his cigar bounced slightly in his mouth.  


“The real Einstein loved sailing. Told me he was no good at it, though. He couldn't swim, either.”  


His train of thought was interrupted as the boy tugged at his coarse wool jacket. When their gazes met, Albert pointed at the clock.  


His caregiver stood with a geriatric grunt.  


“He gets antsy if lunch is late. I should go.”  


Freud nodded and hummed in response. He clicked his pen a few times while he thought.  


“Just a suggestion, but maybe young Einstein here might be more inclined to speak if you didn't compare him to the original man so often.”  


The politician bent over to snub his cigar out in the ashtray.  


“... I hadn't thought of that. I'll keep it in mind.”  


They nodded in each other's direction as Churchill headed out the door, the boy intent on gripping his hand to pull him along faster.  


George Washington Carver was a man that Albert had become intently fascinated with. Every single day, he appeared out of seemingly nowhere, made his lunch for him, then vanished.  


Along with his mysterious disappearances, Albert was interested in the man himself. His wiry mustache was curled in a ridiculous fashion above his mouth, grey hairs poking out in various directions over the black majority. His skin was a dark, saturated brown, yet his palms and fingertips were raw pink. There was a nasal tone in his voice that suggested the words he spoke were decided by his nose rather than his throat.  


He also had the ability to conjure up peanuts out of thin air. That was something notable. His peanut butter was handmade, literally.  


Albert cracked a peanut under his thumbs and threw the seeds into his mouth as he watched Carver make his lunch. The man evenly spread creamy peanut butter onto cheap white bread.  


The boy swallowed his mouthful.  


“Churchill thinks I'm stupid.” He stated bluntly. Carver didn't look up from his task.  


“What makes you say that?”  


“Because I don't talk to him.”  


“I wouldn't, either.”  


The delivery of his reply made Albert giggle.  


The botanist’s eyes then decided to leave the sandwich and focus on the boy sitting on the other side of the kitchen island.  


“You're not stupid, Albert. You're just young. I think he needs some more time to understand that.”  


When he finished talking, he placed another slice of bread on top of the decorated piece, then cut the sandwich in half.  


“Who's the real Einstein?” Albert asked innocently, after a period of silence.  


Carver moved his attention towards chopping up an apple.  


“You are, now.”  


Before the boy could formulate another question, a large, grey dog plodded into the room. His claws tapped the white tile as he walked to make his presence known. He then stopped by the man's side, looking up at him to beg for scraps.  


Carver smiled, using the butter-knife to trace the edge of the glass jar, then wiping it off on the dog's nose. The child descended from his chair just in time to watch the dog struggle with licking the bounty from his muzzle. His head turned and twisted upwards as if the task would be made any easier. Albert squealed with delight and dug his hands into the thick grey fur on the beast’s neck.  
He stood still, then surprised Albert as the quadruped rose on two feet and swiftly evolved into a bearded man in a brown suit. A hearty laugh came from his throat.  


“Come on, now,” Darwin said as he used a paper towel to clean his nose.  


“Albert thought it was funny.” Carver replied comically. Darwin used the knife to gather a wad of peanut butter from the jar, promptly stuck it into his mouth, and tossed the cleaned knife into the sink. He smacked his lips in pleasure as he walked out of the room.  


The boy returned to his seat as Carver set his finished lunch in front of him. A peanut butter sandwich; cut in half, crust pulled off. Half of an apple, in four slices. A glass of cold milk. Albert would refuse anything else; and he wouldn't have it any earlier or later than twelve o’clock.  


“Thank you, Mister Carver.” Came a sweet reply before he took a bite from the sandwich. Carver smiled, starting to wipe the crumbs off of the countertop with a damp rag.  


Both of them jumped when a tea kettle began to whistle on the stove behind them. That was Churchill’s cue to enter the kitchen and begin making his tea. When the botanist turned back to Albert, his face had lost all expression, and he refused to look away from his lunch.  


“You ought to be a little more careful about how you talk to Einstein,” Carver advised, while he screwed the cap back onto the jar.  


“He told me you think he's not smart.”  


“Balderdash. He can't talk. Hasn't even said his first word.” Churchill didn't turn to look at the other man as he talked; he simply set himself on the mission of making his cuppa.  


“He talks to me.”  


Churchill stopped, then finally swiveled his shoulders to glare at the botanist.  


“I haven't heard a single thing come out of his mouth. Not once.”  


“You're probably not listening.” Carver replied, a bit annoyed, then took his leave. He messed up Albert’s hair with his hand as he passed by.  


Churchill held a warm cup in his grip as he leaned against the counter and watched the boy eat his lunch. The room was silent.


End file.
